Work Text:
“I can’t focus with you breathing down my neck, Eddie.”
Your best friend was kneeling behind you on the bed, so close that his hair tickled the back of your head. For once, he was surprisingly quiet, watching your nimble fingers move.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” He mumbled, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head, “I just like watching you work.”
The kiss was quick, barely more than a brush against your hair. You knew he didn’t mean anything by it. Eddie was a natural flirt and was touchy by nature. He’d been kissing you on the forehead for years.
The knowledge didn’t stop the pounding in your chest.
“More like supervising me work.” You joked, “Actually, I don’t really mind. I will need you to move, however. You’re blocking the light.”
The brunette muttered an apology, rising to his feet. Carefully, he climbed over you, socked feet sliding across the mattress. You stilled as he climbed down, waiting until his feet touched the floor before resuming.
Based on his stressed-out expression, you’d have thought you were performing open-heart surgery in his bedroom rather than sewing a new patch on his vest.
Tongue pressed between your teeth; you focused on keeping the stitches even and not stabbing yourself in the thumb. Eddie’s sewing kit didn’t have a thimble, and the patch was thicker than the fabric you usually used. It was taking more focus than you anticipated, and it didn’t help that Eddie had gone from leaning over your shoulder to rearranging his bookshelf and shuffling papers on his table. He couldn’t help but make noise.
He'd been unable to sit still from the moment his treasured vest had been placed in your hands. Despite insisting that he didn’t know how to sew well enough to add the Hellfire Club patch on his vest, he was terrified that you’d damage it.
Usually, you found his movements endearing. But the fact you were trying to concentrate, coupled with the lingering irritation that your childhood best friend had invited you over to do him a favour, was starting to become distracting.
“Why don’t you play some tunes?” You offered.
He nodded, bouncing across the room. Choosing an album would give him something to do other than irritate you.
“Yeah, yeah I can play something.” He hummed, “What about—”
“Not Metallica, please.”
“Why?” He pouted, looking at you with puppy dog eyes, “Ride The Lightning is amazing.”
You didn’t respond; the needle was pressed between your lips as you checked the strength of the stitch.
There was a thump as he dropped the tape back into the box.
“Okay. What about Megadeath?”
“Nope.” You spoke between pursed teeth before grabbing the needle, “No Megadeath either.”
“Why?” Eddie let out a low moan, dramatically spinning, “What’s wrong with Megadeath?”
“Nothing’s wrong with Megadeath, but Dave Mustaine plays on both albums. I said no to one; playing the other wouldn’t be fair. It’s like choosing a favourite kid.”
He blinked, “Who told you that he plays on both?”
“You did, silly.” You placed another stitch, “Last week when we were driving back from the movies.”
Eddie was uncharacteristically quiet, wrapping a curl of hair around his finger. His eyes followed your movements, a strange expression on his face. He must have forgotten the conversation.
“When we saw Aliens?” You offered, “We were driving by the high school and ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’ came on the radio. You said you were surprised they were playing it because most people considered it devil worsh—”
“I remember the conversation.” He interrupted, “I just didn’t think you were listening.”
“I always listen when you talk.”
“I know you were listening.” He wrapped his arms around himself, “I guess I thought you didn’t really care about music.”
“I mean, I obviously don’t know as much about metal as you. It’s important to you, though, so of course, I’ll try and remember as much as I can. I like listening to you talk.”
It was only a partial lie. You didn’t just listen to what Eddie told you; you hung on to every word like it was gospel. You’d been friends since you were in grade school, back when Eddie’s hair was buzzed, and yours was pulled back in those awful pigtails that ripped at your scalp. Even when you’d graduated, and he’d been held back, you both made a point to see each other once weekly. He was your best friend.
And you were head over heels in love with him.
When he didn’t respond, your eyes flickered back to him. He was rocking on the balls of his feet, lip between his teeth like he wanted to say something. You looked away, blushing.
“I do too, you know.”
“Hmm?” You hummed through the needle, “No need to announce it, I know you like hearing yourself talk.”
He scoffed, “You know what I mean. Especially since you left for college. You’re always learning cool shit, and I like hearing about it.”
“Oh yeah, because cognitive dissonance is all the rage at parties. Don’t take me to a frat party though, I’ll explain to the pledges how they’re being brainwashed.”
Eddie blinked, “What?”
“Cognitive dissonance is how we rationalize having two opposite beliefs. Fraternity hazing, like when the first years get paddled and shit, is an example of it. Most people think that being paddled, being stripped naked and forced to run around outside, etcetera is really embarrassing. If you’re doing it to join some stupid club, you’d need to really believe that the club is worth it. By hazing people, Frats are essentially tricking them into thinking that the club is better than it by making them do increasingly ridiculous tasks.”
“That’s what I mean.” He pointed, “When you’re explaining something to me, your face gets all glowy. Your eyes light up, and you look really—”
He stopped, a smile frozen on his face.
“I look really what, Eddie?” You pressed, hopeful.
“Smart.” He finished, voice quiet, “You look really smart.”
Right.
In fifteen years of friendship, he’d never seen you as anything more than his nerdy best friend. Even when you’d drunkenly saddled up to him at parties, wrapping your arms around him and pressing your face into his neck, he’d only laugh and mumbled that it was time to get you home. When you’d try to cuddle with him at the movies, his face would suddenly freeze and subtly shift to the opposite end of the car. Once, you daringly brushed your hand against his while heading for lunch. He’d crossed his hands behind his back and walked like an emperor penguin for the next fifteen minutes.
No, your feelings for Eddie Munson were not reciprocated.
“All done!” You broke the silence, holding up the vest for his approval. The Hellfire Club logo is sitting proudly beside the zipper. The dark font contrasted nicely against the light-blue jean. It beamed like a flag.
In a flash, he was beside you, and you passed him his vest. He ran a finger gingerly across the stitching, eyes wide in wonder.
“That looks so fucking badass, sweetheart.” He praised, eyes twinkling, “It looks amazing, thank you.”
Your heart soared at the compliment and the pet name, and your face went warm. God, you needed to get a hold of yourself.
“It’s nothing, Eddie.” You laughed, “Hand it back to me, though; I need to pull out the needle.”
He set it beside him, ignoring your request. Suddenly, you were pulled from the bed. He was stronger than you remembered, the muscles in his biceps firm beneath your hands.
Without warning, he picked you up, spinning you in the air. You felt weightless, shrieking in delight as you twirled. You had used a hand to stop your dress from flying up and flashing the empty room.
“Eddie, Jesus, Eddie!” You giggled, “Stop!”
He hummed for a moment before slowing, lowering you to your feet. He held his hands to your upper back, holding you in a firm, but not oppressive, embrace. Flat-footed, your head leaned against his neck, and you inhaled deeply. He smelled like weed and leather, a scent you associated with home.
Hoping he couldn’t feel your heart pounding against your chest, you pulled back to look at him. He loosened his grip but kept you in his arms. He was staring, a goofy smile on his face.
“You’re too good to me; you know that?” He mumbled, smiling, “Don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
You let yourself melt into his embrace, soaking up his warmth. Eddie was like a furnace- he always had heat to spare. You inhaled deeply; he smelled vaguely like weed and leather, a scent you’d associated with a feeling of belonging.
You shrugged, smiling, “That’s what friends do, right?”
He dropped his hands from your back and pulled away slightly. He tilted his head back, shaking his curls before looking back at you.
“Yeah.” The smile was still there, but it was tight, forced, “That’s what friends do.”
“Here.” You shook your head, embarrassed that you’d cuddled into him, “Let me cut the thread, and you can try it on.”
You reached for the jacket, grabbing it along the side. Suddenly, a burst of pain shot through your thumb.
“For fucks sake!” You shouted, instinctively sticking your thumb in your mouth.
“Jesus Christ, are you okay?” He tilted his head, eyes wide in concern.
“I’m fine.” You pulled your thumb from your mouth and gave it a once over before popping it back in your mouth. “I poked myself with the sewing needle. I’m fine, not even bleeding.”
Eddie’s eyes were glued to where your lips and thumb connected.
“Lemme see.” He said finally, helping you sit and kneeling on the floor beside the bed, “Doctor Munson is on the job.”
You laughed, shaking your head at his dramatics.
“Honestly, it’s fine.”
“Not fine. I think we’ll need to do a full assessment.” He deepened his voice to parody a doctor on television and grabbed your hand in his own, “Let me take a look.”
His hands were gigantic compared to yours, the rings on his fingers glittering in the light. You tried to ignore the many fantasies about his hands and the things he could do with them.
“Sweetheart?” He prompted, and you realized he’d asked you a question.
“Come again?”
“I said, what should we do about the injury?”
“Well,” You shook your head, “You might as well move the needle so it doesn’t happen again. You’ll have to cut the thread and—”
“On it.” He was already up and moving. You sighed, saddened by the loss of contact, before watching him.
Tilting your head, you watched as he quickly finished the last stitch, tying off the thread with expert fingers. He snapped the end with his teeth and then carefully placed the needle on his bedside table.
“Ta-da!” He showed you his handiwork, smiling.
You raised an eyebrow, eyes flickering from the patch to his face. It was perfectly stitched, and his thread removal had been flawless. Carefully, you rotated the vest and took a closer look at it, running a finger across the backside. The Dio backing, which you’d always assumed had been an iron-on piece, was handsewn to the jacket. Up close, you could see the intricate stitching as clear as day. It was custom-made.
And only one person would have made it.
“You know how to sew?” Your voice was incredulous.
“What?”
“Do you know how to sew?”
“No. I mean, yeah. But barely.”
“Barely? I just watched you, Eddie. And the stitchwork on this is incredible. Your voice raised in volume, “you told me that you had no idea how to sew. You totally could have done this yourself.”
Eddie’s cheeks were pink; shaking his head, “I never said I didn’t know how to sew.”
The rational part of you recognized that your anger was displaced, that you were unfairly taking out your pain and frustration on Eddie. You weren’t angry about the patch; you were irritated that he lied to you. Plus, you were upset that he didn’t love you. Still, your face was starting to burn, and your lip trembled. You didn’t want him to see you get upset.
“Yes, you did.” You stood from the bed, nearly kneeing him in the face, “Actually, I think I should go.”
“Whoa.” He raised both hands in alarm, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” You shook your head, tight-lipped, “Nothing is wrong at all, Eddie. I just remembered I need to go home.”
“You’re about to cry.” He spoke softly, “Is it your finger?”
“Of course, it’s not my fucking finger.” You snapped, then sighed. “I just need to go home.”
“Did I do something?” He bit his lip, “Did I say something that made you feel uncomfortable?”
Why did he have to fucking care so much? It’d be easier if he treated you like shit, then at least you could decide he was a dick and move on. Instead, you were tortured with the possibility that he might care about you, only to be hit with the reality that you were just a friend.
“No.” You bit your lip, ignoring eye contact, “I just need to go home.”
His hand settled respectfully on your shoulders. There was no pressure applied and no pretense. It wasn’t a romantic touch or even sexual. He was just making contact.
“Then tell me what’s wrong.” His eyes searched your face, brow furrowed. He was genuinely concerned.
Your throat itched, and your eyes burned. His empathy was too much.
“It’s just—” Your voice cracked, “Jesus, Eddie. I—”
“It’s okay.” He exhaled, leaning his forehead against your own. “You can tell me anything; I promise I won’t be mad.”
Except he might be mad. Your stupid feeling might ruin everything between the two of you. Your crush felt like an ugly weight on your chest, choking you. A sob burst from your throat, and before you knew it, you were sobbing. Tears poured from your eyes, and your shoulders shook.
His grip on your shoulders tightened, and he pulled you in for a hug. You clutched his t-shirt, fingers ripping into the fabric like a vice. Your vision swam, tears flooding your eyes. His warmth surrounded you, his smell, and it made you sob harder. He was here, but he wasn’t yours.
He held you while you sobbed, rubbing your shoulders and whispering soothingly in your ear. He guided you to the bed, sitting down and letting you climb onto his lap, rubbing your shoulders and holding you.
“It’s okay.”
“I’ve got you, don’t worry.”
“You’re safe with me; let it all out.”
After a lifetime, your breathing slowed, and your sobs fell to sniffles. He kept rubbing your shoulders, and you leaned your head against his chest. You breathed in time, following the rhythm of his exhalations. Eventually, you cried out.
You tilted your head away from him, sniffling.
“I’m sorry.” Your voice was dry, scratchy.
“It’s okay.” He murmured.
“I wrecked your shirt.” There were dark mascara marks across the shoulder.
“Actually,” He craned his neck, “I think you might have made it more badass.”
You snorted, tucking your face into his chest. You could feel his heart beating beneath his ribcage, quick and steady.
He tucked a piece of stray hair behind your ear.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to—” He started, and you shook your head, “---But I need you to know that I’m here for you if you want to tell me what is wrong. I promise.”
Right. Because you could tell him that you just sobbed and snotted on him because you had a crush on him. That wouldn’t send him running for the hills.
“Hey.” His voice was firm, and he touched your chin with one finger, lifting you to look at his face, “Look at me. Look into my eyes. I know what it’s like to feel fucked up and like nobody cares. And I’m telling you that you might be wrong if you feel that way. I care about you, and I’m serious about being here. I’ve never lied to you before,” He paused, “except maybe about how much I know about sewing, but I’d never lie about this.”
His face hovered mere inches from your own. You’d never been this close to him. You could see every spiderweb wrinkle that began to form in the corner of his eyes and the faint freckles that had faded on his cheeks as he entered adulthood. In the light, you could catch the individual hairs that made his five o’clock shadow. Your eyes flickered from his eyes to your mouth, set in a compassionate smile. He was empathetic to your pain, even if he didn’t know what was wrong. He looked fucking beautiful.
You looked back to his doe eyes; his eyebrows were raised. His tongue darted from between his lips, and you glanced down. When you looked back up, there was a pain in his expression. He’d caught you looking at his mouth, staring at his lips.
“Sweetheart I—”
“Don’t call me that.” The words tumbled out of your mouth, “You can’t call me that anymore.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not.”
“You’re not what?”
“I’m not your sweetheart.” You replied, voice raw, “So you have to stop kissing me on the head and cuddling me when we watch movies.”
He was frozen, a statue, watching you. He exhaled, his breath tickling your face. He blinked, expressionless.
“Did I make you uncomfortable?” He sounded like a little kid, “I’m the reason you’re crying?”
“No.” You shook your head, “Not uncomfortable. Just, no more touching and no more sweetheart.”
His arms were twitching, telltale signs he was getting anxious, and your own heart was pounding in your chest. You wanted to run, push him away and sprint away from the conversation.
“I’m sorry for cuddling and all the touchy-feely shit. I crossed a line, and I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have started doing any of it.” He blurted, tripping over his own words, “But it sounds like you’re breaking up with me, or whatever you call it when you decide you can’t be someone’s friend anymore and I don’t know what you’re talking about and, and ---” He stopped, breathing hard, “Fuck, did I hurt you?”
“No, Eddie.” You whispered, stroking his cheek and the soft stubble that grew there, “No, you haven’t done anything wrong.”
His own eyes were filling with tears, and his lip trembled.
“Eddie, you’re my best friend, but if you keep doing that, it will destroy me.” Your voice was barely audible, cracking as you spoke. “Because I know you don’t feel the same way I do, and that’s fine, but I can’t handle this.”
“I don’t feel the same way?” He had gone pale, “You’re my best friend—"
“I know.” You whispered, stroking his cheek and the soft stubble that grew there, “And I know that’s all you want, and I’m sorry that I….”
You trailed off, choking back a fresh wave of tears. You tilted your head, forcing yourself to get a hold of your emotions before continuing, unable to look at him any longer.
“Hey, wait a minute.” He crouched down, forcing himself into your line of vision, “That’s all I want? Are you saying you want something else? Something more?”
You didn’t respond, looking up at him through teary eyes. Finally, you nodded.
“Something more than friendship with me?”
You nodded again.
A beat.
Then thirty seconds passed. It was a full minute before you spoke.
“Eddie, I’m sorry for—”
At the same time,
“Can I kiss you?”
Then,
“What did you just—”
“I’ve loved you since the eighth grade.”
Followed by,
“Eddie, if you’re joking, I swear to God—”
“Only if you want to, of course.”
And finally, simultaneously,
“I’ve never wanted anything more.”
Breathlessly, you laughed, and a grin broke out across his features.
His palm stroked the side of your face, rubbing his thumb along your jaw. He tilted your head towards him and pulled you closer. He froze, lips gently brushing your own, and you could smell the toothpaste on his breath.
You closed the gap, eyes falling shut as you slotted your lips against his own.
He kissed you like he was drowning, and you were his last chance of air. His lips moved slowly, not too firm, and letting you take the lead. His lips were soft but slightly chapped, catching on your own.
One hand stroked your cheek, and the other fell to your shoulder, gently guiding you closer. Shifting your legs, you deepened the kiss, wrapping an arm around his neck. Chests pressed against each other, you could feel his heart pounding against your chest, matching your own beating heart. Your hand tangled in his hair, wrapping your fingers around the brown curls. You tugged, gently guiding him closer, and he groaned against your lips.
Spurred by the sound, your tongue swiped against his lower lip. He sighed, allowing you to deepen the kiss. Your eyelids fluttered, and you could make out his blurry face between your lashes, eyes closed in pleasure.
His hand stroked your bicep, callused fingers skimming across your jacket. In your dazed mind, you wondered if he was strumming a pattern on your skin before your tongue touched his, and the thought slipped from your mind.
You reached for his arm, clutching at the space between his tattoos. You squeezed at the skin, feeling the muscle rippling beneath.
He pulled back first, breathing heavily. When you opened your eyes, they met his own, half-lidded with desire. His cheeks were pink, flushed, and your cheeks burned. He was grinning, dimples beaming. After a moment, he tilted his forehead against your own.
“You’re gorgeous.” He murmured, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek, “Have I ever told you that?”
“No.” You murmured, honestly.
Then I’m a fucking coward.” He kissed you again, a bit more insistent this time, pressing firmly against your lips, “You’re absolutely gorgeous, the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen. That’s what I wanted to tell you earlier. Not that you aren’t smart, but you’re so fucking gorgeous it’s unreal.”
With each compliment, he kissed you again, making his way across your nose, forehead, and cheek. Each sentence made your chest flutter, and your heart beat faster.
“Eddie, I—” You sighed, stunned.
“Shh, let me finish.” He tilted your head to face him, two fingers beneath your chin, “Because if I lose my nerve, I’ll never get the words out.”
He took a deep breath, steadying himself.
“And you’re funny; you make me laugh harder than anyone I’ve ever met. You’ve made me piss myself laughing more times than I’d like to admit.”
“Charming.”
“Shut up.” He laughed, “I have loved you for years, most of my life. At least since high school, maybe since the day, we met. I’m pretty sure it was the same day Mrs. Thompson moved my seat and put us beside each other in the third grade.”
He cupped your face with both hands, eyes searching yours, “I have always been terrified that you’d realize how I felt and run for the hills. I mean, I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks, but you deserve better than me. I live in a goddamn trailer park--” His voice cracked, “And I’ve failed senior year twice; why would you ever look at me twice? Most people who see us together think you’re doing community service.”
You shook your head at his confession, but he soldiered on.
“But I would do anything for you. I’d probably be ticked if you asked me to die for you, but I’d do it. Hell, if I hadn’t failed chemistry, I would have found a suit and cut my hair all nice and pretty to be the man that was on your arm on prom night.”
He smiled sadly like he was holding back tears. You reached forward and grabbed his hand, squeezing it encouragingly. He rubbed his thumb on the back of your palm in gratitude.
“And now I hear about how you’re out in the world, kicking ass in class, and I can’t help but feel proud. You’re making a name for yourself, getting out of this shitty town, and I’m so fucking proud of you.”
Your tears started again, brimming at the surface of your face. His confession was overwhelming.
“So yeah, you’re my best friend. And yes, I love you. More than fucking anyone.”
Tears were streaming down your face, but you weren’t sad. You were elated, your heart pounding. Nobody had ever spoken so highly about you, and you couldn’t control the happy tears streaming down your face.
Your chin touched your chest as tears streamed down your face. He pulled your hand to his lips and pressed a chaste kiss to your knuckles.
“Hey,” He frowned, “Are you okay?”
“Yes, you idiot.” You grinned, “They’re happy tears… I, I love you too.”
A giggle burst from his chest, and he pulled you in for a hug. You tucked your head into his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around you. For a long time, neither of you spoke, satisfied to sit in each other’s company.
Finally, both of your knees began to ache. He helped you up and pulled you back onto the bed, shifting until you cuddled him, lying on top of the unmade blankets. You breathed in time with one another, chest lifting with his own. You traced the skin of his visible tattoos, outlining the demon and the bats with your fingertips. In return, he rubbed your shoulders.
Every few minutes, he’d pressed a soft kiss to the crown of your head, sighing contently.
“I do know how to sew.” He finally admitted, voice soft.
The words lingered in the air for a moment before you responded.
“Why would you lie?”
“I don’t really know,” His voice caught, cheeks hot, “I guess I just wanted something of yours close to me. Or maybe I wanted something you made, something made with love or whatever. I don’t know. It was stupid, and I’m sorry.”
You tilted your head, looking up at him. His face was bright red, and he worried his lip between his teeth. You pressed a kiss to his cheek, calming him. You were still irritated that he lied, but the anger wasn’t as sharp.
“Not stupid at all.” You promised, “But next time, just ask me.”
“Okay.” He promised, “Because I have this new Metallica patch and—”
You gave his arm a light punch, chuckling.
“Shut the fuck up, Munson.”
X
The ashtray shone in the light of the small Christmas Tree, and Eddie carefully set the joint on the glass edge. His other arm was wrapped around your waist, holding you tightly to him.
“You’re awfully giddy.” He smiled, “Something on your mind, sweetheart?”
You’d been bouncing on your heels all afternoon. After nearly six months of friendship and eight months since your first kiss, he could read your moods like the back of his hand. You’d practically been vibrating since you’d gotten to the trailer, and something was up.
Even Wayne, who usually snuck out to give the two of you privacy, had stuck around and was eyeing you both with a suspicious glance.
Whatever was going on, both you and Wayne knew about it.
“Well, I might have gotten you an early Christmas present.” You grinned, “And I don’t think I can wait another night to give it to you.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Christmas present? That’s over two weeks from now.”
“Yes—”
“And I don’t have anything for you yet.”
You shook your head, biting your lip. Even Wayne huffed from his seat on the sofa.
“Just let her give you the gift, boy.” He grumbled, eyes crinkled in a smile, “You can pay her back later.”
“Okay.” Eddie raised his hands in defence, “I won’t say no to a gift.”
You hopped off the couch, barely taking the time to adjust your skirt before you skipped down the hallway, disappearing into his room. He’d once said his room was so messy that you could hide a body in it, and he wouldn’t notice, so when you returned with a parcel wrapped in Christmas-Ornament paper, he wasn’t surprised.
You plopped the package in his lap before sitting down, hands on your knees.
He inspected it carefully. The paper was wrinkle-free; aside from the crisp edges, it was completely undamaged. The corners were folded into neat triangles. You’d put great effort into wrapping it. He lifted it gently. It was light and soft—something fabric, probably a blanket.
His eyes flickered to yours. You were watching intently, eyes glittering. Even Uncle Wayne had shifted in his seat to get a better view.
Frowning, he cautiously popped the corners. It had been a long time since anyone had taken besides Wayne had even gotten him a Christmas present, let alone wrapped one so beautifully. He didn’t want to rip the paper.
Eddie could feel you holding your breath as he popped the tape, watching him intently. For the first time in months, he felt self-conscious under your gaze. Then, he opened the wrapping.
He blinked.
He ran a finger over the fabric, uncomprehending. It was a knitted sweater, a soft, plush fabric. It was a black background with green, red and white decorations. White slashes ran through the entire pattern, sometimes on top and sometimes beneath.
His eyes flickered to Wayne’s. His Uncle was looking at him, tears in his eyes as he looked at his nephew.
Then, Eddie slowly lifted it from his lap.
He unfolded it, eyes widening in comprehension. His jaw dropped, and his own eyes started to sting.
“Where did you—”
“I made it.” You said softly.
The white stitches weren’t arbitrary lines but lightning bolts that ran throughout the sweater. Snowflakes in yellow and green sat in neat rows, stacked between rows of red and green reindeer and trees. Written at the top, in perfect lettering, was the Metallica Logo.
“Holy shit.” He whispered, “You knit me a Metallica sweater?”
Tears were threatening to spill, and his lip trembled. It was beautiful and just his size. He didn’t know if he would avoid wearing it for fear of wrecking it or if he was going to wear the shit out of it.
“It’s one of a kind.” You smiled, “And made with love.”
He nodded, speechless. He held it to his chest, clutching it like a security blanket. His fingers were trembling, and his heart felt suspiciously large in his chest.
You pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek.
“Merry Christmas, Eddie.”